There I was, riding a dirtbike through the forest. I was happy as a clam. I had no idea where I was specifically but I had a general idea. That’s all I needed. The weather was ok and I had time to “find my location” before sunset. I had not a care in the world.
Plus I had a grouse stashed in my pocket for dinner!
Has any man been more blessed?
I sent out a SpotX message that I had a grouse. This was a bad idea.
During my peaceful wanderings I climbed a hill. It was just enough that I got cell service. A bunch of pent up texts beeped at me. Most were from my SpotX. (I send SpotX check ins to myself too, how else to know it works?)
A few texts were from Mrs. Curmudgeon. She had advice about how to cook my precious grouse. This makes sense, whenever I bring a bird home she takes over and cooks it. She has opinions about cooking. (Who doesn’t.) She really likes tinfoil and ovens. She will make a single grouse breast as if it were a miniature turkey; usually with rice or something. It tastes great so what do I know?
Anyway she told me the bird would be tough and dry. This I took personally. The grouse was fresh as possible. Perfect head shot. Why would it be tough?
She said I should soak it in something. I’m not a terrible cook, but I definitely cook more “primitively” than her. She’d implied the dark arts of “brine” or “marinade”. I was getting dizzy just thinking about it. Also, maybe she was thinking of squirrel (which is tough and absolutely benefits from being crammed in a bag with Worchester Sauce)… not that I had (or could spell) a bottle of the stuff. I only had the limited materials I’d brought and nothing more.
My idea was to go full caveman. I’d put the bird on a stick and cook it like a giant marshmallow.
I turned this over in my head as I rode down yet another delightful trail. It probably would turn into a cinder if I did it that way. Am I not an Adaptive soul? I’d think of something else.
I did have olive oil. I could brush it with oil. I also had salt and pepper. I also had a small firebox with a grill. I could brush the bird, season it, then put it on the grill over coals in the firebox; like a BBQ chicken. I didn’t have a brush for the oil. A paper towel might work?
I went back out of cell reception, which was good because this was worrying me.
I had further adventures which I’ll mention later. Then I pulled into camp just before sunset. I was very tired and it was quite chilly.
I’d received another text. Mrs. Curmudgeon suggested I boil it in beer. (Possibly simmer, I got confused?) Thus, keeping it “moist”. My only beer was Octoberfest, which seems like a bad thing to pair with gamebird as a marinade. And boiling? Like a stew? And why was my bird going to be tough? It was a great bird. The best!
I got out my folding firebox and started dealing with firewood. I was at a campground and it had been raining a lot. I had “bought” wood for the fire ring but that was big chunks. I also has some scraps of 2″x12″ planks. All too big to use in the little firebox. Should I go on an expedition to get wood of the proper size? It was dark and I was tired. It sounded like way too much work.
I eyed my three remaining beers. Should I sacrifice one?
I checked in with a friend who’s cooked more game than I. Couldn’t I just fry the bird in olive oil on my campstove? Is not a frying pan a perfectly acceptable solution?
He wrote back with wisdom. “Drink the beer. Fry the bird.”
Excellent. I decided to ignore my wife’s well meaning advice. She wasn’t there. Me and the bird and the beer were. The situation called for primitive cooking.
I cut the little breast into boneless pieces. Filleted? Is that the word? It wasn’t a fish.
I lit the campstove’s single burner, heated a tablespoon of oil, tossed in the smallest piece (test with the smallest piece!), and added salt and pepper from my cool little 3d printed shaker.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect. I gobbled up the tiny test piece like I’d never eaten before.
I cracked a beer and had it half done before the next piece was done. As before it was perfect.
I cooked the rest. I took a dozen photos of the silly little hunk of meat because I was so proud. Not only had I shot the bird but I’d avoided the pitfall of wasted beer. It was delicious.
One grouse ain’t enough for a full meal. I’d already stashed some sloppy Joe in my cooler. I heated that in the frying pan and wolfed it down too. It was great, but not as awesome as fresh gamebird.
After the meal I shoved my unused firebox aside and lit some wood in the fire ring. The wood that was too big for cooking was fine for warming my tired body. The beer went down smooth. I was sad when it was all gone.
I had a small limp from further adventures which I haven’t mentioned. It felt OK. I was sure it would work itself out eventually. In the flickering firelight I could see my super tough little dirtbike. I personify all sorts of shit. I think the bike was pleased. It had done well. I hadn’t fucked up. We’d had fun together.
What a great day!